Four Gods wait on the windowsill
Where once eight Gods did war and will,
And if the gods themselves may die,
What does that say for you and I?
Now three Gods sit on the windowsill,
Where one God's blood was lately spilled
Black tongues lap at the spreading pool,
To build the strength they need to rule.
When two Gods wait on the windowsill,
The wick of the world is burning, still.
But when one God in triumph shouts,
The candle of the world goes out.
And when that candle, bare and white,
Sheds at last its dancing light
Then we will rouse, with raisÚd rod
To pierce the very house of God.
— The Quartet For The Dusk Of Man,
Tycho Ephemerous Brahe